It was dark beneath the crimson boughs of the Ruby Way. No moonlight penetrated the thick canopy overhead, but the Archon didn’t need any. His blood scorched in his veins and his eyes adjusted to the gloom. The dirt beneath his feet was soft and yielding as each stride carried him leaps and bounds. It had been many years since he had used his blood will for such an extended period of time, or for anything so physical. He knew his old bones would pay for his exertions, but that was tomorrow’s problem.
It was hard to say how much time had passed since he had entered the forest, and since his entourage had lost pace with him. Without the sky for guidance it could have been hours. All the trees looked so similar, and he couldn’t shake the feeling he was running in circles. The Archon was a man used to trusting in himself, but there were plenty of rumors. It was said that you could wander into the Ruby Way for what seemed like moments, only to find yourself back where you started days, or even weeks later. Tales like that were common among the nations that shared a border with the Forest. The general consensus was to avoid it entirely.
Now that he was experiencing it himself, the Archon was certain the phenomenon wasn’t a natural occurrence. The silence was pervasive, too pervasive, and no matter how far he extended his senses he couldn’t feel the presence of any wildlife. There were no small rodents or birds. There weren’t even any bugs. Strangest of all were the trees themselves. They were larger than any he had ever seen, many of them as wide around as the prow of a ship. It rarely rained so far south of the Sweet Sea, so their size was an anomaly. Most notable however was their bright crimson coloring. They were not unlike giant red maples, only redder, and more giant. Much more giant…
Since the moment he had entered the forest, the Archon had begun to suspect that the Ruby Way wasn’t what it was pretending to be. It was only a hypothesis, but one that he intended to verify, and soon. Fortunately for him, his blood will was uniquely suited to the task.
It was strange to think that he had never entered the forest before now. He had fought battles along it’s edges, spent most of his young life looking at it, and had even gone around it to enter Ryedyn on one occasion. So why? Why had he never even contemplated it until this moment?
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted something and moved towards it. Stopping at the base of one the trees, the Archon glanced up.
“This is new,” he said, giving his chin an inquisitive stroke. Wrapped around the tree was a thick cord of rope tied in a bow. Dangling from the rope were a dozen or more small rectangular pieces of paper with symbols written on them. The symbols were clearly inked in blood, and consisted of multiple intersecting lines that formed shapes inside of a larger circle. They were letters, and not only that, they were letters he recognized.

***

The Archon remembered a woman sitting under a tree, her hair the same white as the plum blossoms that fluttered about her. As he approached, her gaze remained fixed on the notebook in her lap.
It was spring, and the war had just ended. After many years they had emerged victorious, and a feeling of peace had returned to Tieran. For the first time in a long time, The Archon, still just Gen back then, had begun to let down his guard.
“Yien, this is where you were? The ceremony is about to start. I’ve been looking for you.”
Turning from her notebook, Yien flashed him her impish smile.
“Oh? Did you miss me, hero?” she replied, her tone playful.
The Archon looked down at the notebook, but couldn’t make heads or tails of what was written there, just a series of strange round symbols. He smiled back.
“Of course I did. Now come on or we’re going to be late.”
“Just give me a minute. I’m in the middle of something.” She waved him off with one hand and a wink. “I won’t be long, and then I’ll catch up. I promise.”
The Archon shrugged.
“And I can’t promise I won’t start drinking without you.” He turned to walk away, but before he could get more than a few steps.
“Hey, Gen?”
“What is it?”
“Does this world feel… unfinished, to you?”

***

The Archon balled his hands into fists and squeezed his eyes shut. That was the last he had seen of her. Yien had never arrived at the ceremony, nor had he had any word from her since. Was she somehow involved with the Ruby Way? He wouldn’t put it past her. Yien had a knack for being at the center of everything, especially where he was concerned.
Bringing his thumb to his mouth, the Archon bit down just hard enough to draw a few drops of blood. What he was about to do was incredibly risky, even for him, but he had never been able to resist a good gamble. He reached up and pressed his thumb into the paper, making sure his blood overlapped with the writing.
“Here goes nothing.”
The connection was instant, and the entire forest vanished.
Glancing around, the Archon found himself in another world. He was standing on a field of craggy gray stone that stretched from horizon to horizon. It was a wasteland of dust. All around him, scattered like seeds, were the corpses of Ryedyn soldiers, tens, maybe even hundreds of thousands of them. Roots rose from great crevices in the earth and wrapped themselves about the dead, twisting and breaking them into unnatural shapes.
He wasn’t sure if what he was seeing was the real Ruby Way, or if it was just an illusion.
Directly in front of him was one of the soldiers, it’s eerily featureless face plate reflecting his own gaze back at him. The soldier wore a suit of dark gray armor, it’s shape intentionally flat and plain, without any sharp edges or angles. The Archon wasn’t sure if the soldier was a man, woman, or neither. The armor erased any identity the wearer may have possessed before donning it. The soldiers of Ryedyn were known as, “the Many,” for a reason. In the eyes of their god, they were not people, they were sacrifices.
There were no wounds on the soldier to indicate what had killed it, so the Archon had to assume it was the roots themselves. Bending down, the Archon leaned in close.
“Help… Me,” croaked the soldier.
The Archon leaped back, releasing his grip on the piece of paper. Before he could plant his feet, the field disappeared and he found himself back in the forest. Where the soldier had been, was the tree with the rope around it.
“Now I get it.”
He was beginning to connect the dots. Not only that, but he knew where he needed to go. The link he had made with his blood will had shown him the path. The Archon just needed to decide if the source was something he actually wanted to find. He paused, and examined the tree while he considered.
The pragmatic choice would be to wait for his entourage to catch up, but there was no guarantee that would even happen given the nature of the forest. The second most pragmatic choice would be to turn around and forget everything he had seen, but that sounded boring. The third choice was to forge ahead and deal with the consequences later.
“This is starting to get exciting,” he said, giving his knuckles a satisfying crack.
The Archon took off running, no longer trusting merely to his senses for guidance. Every step brought him closer to the beating heart of the Ruby Way, and to answers. The further he ran, the more common the ropes became. At first he would spot one on the occasionally tree, then he would spot them on a few trees grouped together, until finally every single tree bore a rope.
It was a good sign. The ropes, or more specifically the pieces of paper attached to them, were talismans. Though the Archon wasn’t wise to the specifics, he had a feeling they formed a kind of illusory barrier, their intent being to misdirect. It was an interesting application of blood will, and one that he had never seen before. If not for the unique nature of his own abilities, it might have worked.
Up ahead, the Archon saw a glimmer of dusty light between the trees and made for it. He broke through the treeline and found himself on the stone field. The forest behind him faded from view as if it had never been. The Ruby Way had taken off it’s mask, or perhaps he had broken free of the illusion.
Not too far off in the distance the Archon could make out the silhouette of a tall structure atop a hill, and a plume of smoke rising into the gravel sky. It was probably the same plume of smoke that he had seen from his wife’s grave, the same plume of smoke that had called to him. Letting his curiosity and excitement get the better of him, he kept moving, weaving between the root bound soldiers and leaping effortlessly over the chasms. The nearer he drew to the hill the more dead he found, and the thicker the roots grew. The expressionless masks of the Many took on a horrific aspect as their hollow gazes followed him. It didn’t take him long to reach his destination.
At the base of the hill the roots and corpses formed a twisted and macabre wall, literally several men high. The Archon got the feeling that the roots did not want anyone to reach the top. Perhaps the soldiers all around him had died in the attempt. If that was the case though, why had he been able to make it this far without meeting any resistance? It was not a comforting thought.
Crouching low, the Archon focused all of his strength into his legs. He leaned forward slightly, placing one palm flat against the ground for balance. Muscles tensing, he launched himself into the air like a catapult stone. He cleared the wall without issue, and for the first time caught a glimpse of what was on top.
The Archon landed on a staircase, a few hundred steps in length, and four to five men wide.
“You’ve still got it,” he said, brushing his shoulders and shaking out his legs. Turning to look back at the wall, he could see that the roots were beginning to writhe a little. Perhaps they were becoming aware of him. “That can’t be good.” One of the roots lashed out suddenly, and the Archon dodged to one side. It seemed like his free pass had been rescinded. He ran towards the peak, leaping a dozen steps at a time.
All of the surrounding roots were coming after him now. The Archon weaved and ducked, leaving them grasping at air. When one got too close, he would kick or punch it back. Dancing around some of the roots, he managed to get close to one of the Ryedyn soldiers. He reached out, his motion fast and fluid, his fingers fastening around the dead soldiers sword hilt. With a snap, he unsheathed the sword and cut at the roots with a lightening quick flurry of slashes. The sword was old, and not the kind he was used to, but by the gods it felt good to hold a blade again.
With his weapon in hand, he carved his way forward. He was a farmer scything wheat, a gardener clipping grass, a butcher carving meat. Years of practice and training came back to him in an instant as if the war had never ended and he had never left the battlefield. He perceived the movement of the roots with all of his senses, his awareness expanding as his breathing steadied.
The Archon laughed.
He didn’t mind being a politician, but he had missed being a warrior.
The hilltop was in sight now, just visible through the mass of roots. It was only a little bit farther. A few more strokes, a few more steps, and then…
He swung his sword up, bits of root and splintered wood scattering into the air around him. Cleaving his way through, the Archon stepped out and unto a platform. The roots didn’t follow him. He looked back at the shifting mass below and behind, and smiled.
“It was fun,” he said, giving the roots a mock bow. “But I win.”
He was a standing on a flat platform of square stone tiles, about three hundred strides across in either direction. At the center of the platform was a massive obelisk, easily twice as wide as of any of the trees that he had seen. The entire obelisk was made of metal, it’s body still shiny and untouched by time or weathering. It floated half a man’s height over the platform, as if suspended in takeoff.
“It looks like a coffin,” the Archon muttered. The shape was unmistakable, though if it was a coffin, it was the biggest he had ever seen. More of the strange letters from earlier covered it’s surface, engraved into the metal in patterns and sentences. The Archon couldn’t make heads or tails of what they said, but they felt like a warning. Following the length of the obelisk with his eyes, it looked tall enough to pierce the sky. Clouds swirled around its upper portion in a spiral pattern, as if drawn to and around it. Strange that he had not been able to see the obelisk from his village, considering it’s size.
At the base of the obelisk were two large stone braziers, carved into what the Archon could only think of as festival lanterns. They burned with an ephemeral blue flame, sending thick plumes of smoke into the atmosphere. As remarkable as all of this was, something else had caught the Archon’s eye. He walked towards the obelisk, his footsteps cacophonous against the stone.
A dozen strides in front of him was a corpse.
The Archon’s gaze was transfixed. It was a scene of such morbid curiosity that it felt like looking at a piece of art as opposed to a dead body. It was a display of color so vivid that it threatened to break the wash of gray landscape that surrounded it. Never in his life would the Archon have thought to describe a dead person as, “beautiful,” until now
Clutching tightly to his sword, the Archon cautiously approached the body. The atmosphere around the base of the obelisk was heavy, and he could feel it’s weight all around him. He wasn’t entirely sure who or what he was looking at, but he knew it was important. The entire scene had the feeling of ritual to it. The cruelty inflicted on this person was procedural, practiced, and performative. They had been put there as a spectacle.
Stopping within reach of the body, the Archon examined the various wounds. Most obviously, someone had plunged a sword into the corpse’s chest, pinning it to the side of the obelisk so that it would hang there like a signpost on a hook. The corpse’s limbs had also been removed, cleanly and with a surgeons precision. Whether they had been removed before, or after death, was hard to say. Last but not least was the massive head wound. The entire upper left side of the head had been blown clean off, as if by some tremendous force.
As for the recipient of these horrendous injuries…
They must have been someone important, or rich.
Their coat was primarily made of white silk and golden thread, though the majority of it was stained red for obvious reasons. Intricate embroidery in a tapestry of elements adorned the coat, the production of which had likely paid some master artisan a lifetime’s wage. Sky and sea wove about it’s shoulders in blues and teals, while greens, coppers and browns shaped themselves into stylized depictions of land around it’s middle. Beneath the coat was an equally intricate breastplate made of an unfamiliar dark metal, and golden jewelry hung from the body’s ears and neck in profusion.
Even though the person’s garb was vaguely similar to something he had seen in the past, what convinced him that it wasn’t a coincidence was the sword, and the color of their hair. The Archon could have persuaded himself that any one thing might be happenstance, but there was no way to explain this many commonalities .
The sword was a longsword, slightly curved and with a single edge. It bore the same strange letters that decorated the obelisk, as well as the talismans from earlier along the length of it’s blade, while at the base of it’s hilt, was a large red orb, a little small than the palm of his hand.
And the hair.
Though he could not see their face, as the head was hanging forward, the hair was shoulder length and silver. The Archon had seen all of these things before, and he had seen them on the same person.
A rush of trepidation overcame the Archon. Slowly, he reached forward with his free hand.
“Yien,” he whispered to himself, his voice quivering. The memory of the girl beneath the plum blossoms played through his mind again. He remembered her smile, her quick wit, and her strength. “Is this where you’ve been all this time?”
Hesitantly, the Archon brushed the corpse’s bangs to the side.
Large jade eyes stared back at him.
The hairs on the Archon’s arms and legs all stood up at the same time and, though he had always considered himself a brave man, fear coursed through his veins in that moment.
With a cats quickness the Archon whipped his sword up and pressed it’s edge against the corpse’s neck.
“Who are you!?” he shouted, teeth grinding and muscles tense.
Seeming oblivious to the sword pressed against his flesh, the corpse leaned forward and slowly opened it’s mouth as if to scream, it’s large green eyes staying fixed on the Archon. In those eyes the Archon saw desperation, and more than a little madness. “You’re…” the Archon paused, “alive… How the?”
Relief flooded the Archon as he realized that this person was not Yien.
The corpse before him was a man, probably.
What remained of the man’s face was androgynous, undefined, and ageless. He had soft features that would have looked more at home on a doll or a statue than a human, and he could have been anywhere from twenty to fifty years old. He was handsome, or perhaps beautiful, yet barely seemed human.
Looking away from the directness of the man’s gaze, the Archon looked into his mouth. Sticking out of the esophagus was something metallic and jagged.
The Archon stared without moving, willing his heartbeat to slow as he felt a bead of sweat roll down his forehead.
“You want me to take that out?” he asked as he squeezed his fingers tightly around the hilt of his sword. The strange man said nothing, but his eyes remained fixed on the Archon. “It’s going to hurt?” Again, the man didn’t reply, couldn’t reply. It was a stupid point to make anyway. The Archon’s nerves were getting the better of him.

“Hey, guy with half a head, sword through his chest, and no arms or legs, pulling this thing out of your throat is going to be painful!”

The Archon took a deep breath, and moved his free hand towards the man’s mouth. Wrapping his index finger and thumb gingerly around the object, he pulled. With inexorable slowness, the strange metal rod came free. There was a slight pop, and then, the man spoke. His voice was low, and carried easily. An orators voice if ever the Archon had heard one.
“Thank you, now run!”
The Archon looked from the rod in his hand to the man, and then at the sword buried in the man’s chest. Surely the man did not expect him to just leave it there?
“What about that,” he asked, nodding towards the sword.
“There isn’t time, now run!”
The Archon fixed his attention back on the sword. He wasn’t sure what the man was talking about, but it probably wasn’t good. That being said, he was the Archon, and he had come this far already.
“Hold on, I’m going to get you off of there.”
“Leave me! Leave this place!”
Dropping his own weapon to the ground, the Archon grabbed the hilt of the sword embedded into the man with both hands. He knew that this was a fool’s errand. Even if he managed to get the sword out, then what? The man would likely just bleed to death, and even if he somehow survived, what kind of life could he lead with just a torso? These were all pertinent questions, and yet…
At the end of the day, he couldn’t just do nothing.
It wasn’t in his nature.
“Try not to bite your tongue off,” said the Archon. Channeling his blood will, he focused his strength into his body. He didn’t have much left to give after his earlier exertions, but not much was better than nothing. Propping one leg up against the obelisk, he pulled with all his might. The sword made an awful creaking noise, as the man began to scream.
“Come on now!” shouted the Archon, the veins in his forehead and forearms threatening to burst from his efforts. “Just a bit more!”
Suddenly the ground beneath his feet began to rumble. The entire hill upon which he stood began to shake as if it was coming alive. The Archon bellowed his frustration, and focused his will even more.

“You’ve always been strong, even though you’ve also always been too dense to see that. You will know what to do when the time comes. You’ll know what’s right without even thinking about it. That’s what I loved about you.”

“Is this it, Lily? Is this what you wanted?”

Just as he had the thought, the sword released itself from the obelisk, and the ground beneath the Archon ruptured as the roots from earlier broke through the tiles from below. As the sword passed from the man’s flesh, the roots wound themselves around the Archon’s legs and twisted. He felt his bones snapping and skin rupturing and they began to rip him apart.
The last thing he saw was the man he had saved tumbling towards him, lips forming a word, a look of sadness and loss on his face.